let me be your knight
by electrikitty
Summary: everyone needs a knight sometimes. / the royal tutor / one-shot


**Let Me Be Your Knight**

Not again.

Please, not again.

My heart whispers the words, and I have to stop. Stop, the heels of my shoes scuffing on the carpet, I have to submit and acquiesce.

I halt. 'Count Rosenberg.'

Maybe I'll have caught him off guard. Maybe he'll have more pressing concerns today. Maybe I can gain passage past, with minimal suffering.

He bows, yet there is no humility, no courtesy in his movements, not in the tilt of his head and calculated smirk.

Not today.

'Herr Wittgenstein. What a pleasure.'

He heads in my direction, with no effort to close the distance.

It's not that he's unpredictable. It's that he has so many choices. He could say a few choice words. He could take me away by the arm. He could slam me into a wall and tell me to shut my filthy mouth.

I still carry the bruises.

'You have business on behalf of Prince Eins, Count Rosenberg?'

He shrugs elegantly, drawing closer. 'Yes, as usual. How fare the princes?'

The single key to my room hangs on a string around my neck. Whether it be a drunk in an alleyway or a nobleman in a carpeted corridor, the urge to slip the key between my knuckles and defend myself burns hot just the same.

 _If it were only me._

That phrase has echoed through my head time after time. When weighed down in a fight by children that I had to protect, when duty and obligation shackled me, chains wrapping around every limb and falling in a jagged waterfall of steel from an ivory tower.

If only it were only me, then I could take agency and fight.

Yet I can't.

Not with a criminal record burned into my skin in glowing shades of amber and crimson, not with vows and promises weighing down my heart like padlocks, drowning me in a sea of broken keys. The promise to restrain myself, to bury my violent nature and draw on it only as a weapon to come to the princes' aid — that very promise colours every choice I make as though it were engraved and painted on my glasses lenses. The pardon for my crimes, my position at the palace, and the undeserved grace that a merciful king gave me from the kindness of his heart: all of it holds me back, chains and puppet strings of obligation and restraint anchored in my bones.

So I can't take up that key.

'So tell me, Herr Wittgenstein.'

I read him a moment too late, a sentence behind on the page.

He snatches me and my feet leave the floor, breath leaving my chest in a punch, choking, colour and exploding lights burning stars into my eyes, searing pain running down my spine, my neck under his hands —

And I can't do a thing.

His eyes are so red in some lights. Enough to make one wonder if he was possessed.

'Do you realise that I can have you arrested on grounds of treason?' he says. 'Casting aspersions on Prince Eins' right to rule, as you dared to do, would be enough for me to have you jailed.'

'You mean to have the king arrested too, then? As it was his opinion I repeated instead of voicing my own—' My breath leaves my lips with a faint noise, as he chokes the words to death.

'But you still said it, didn't you?' he murmurs. He licks his lips and waits.

'It's…' My breath catches on my words. '…not as though I can prevent you from framing me if you wished.'

He smiles. 'Exactly. But take my advice. Don't give me more material to work with.'

I narrow my eyes. 'If I took your advice, I'd be back at Maria Vetsera.'

His eyes narrow in return. Ruby eyes and well-sharpened fangs. 'By all means, Professor. Feel free.'

My heartbeat won't slow down. I spoke the truth earlier. A framed charge? An attack like that will finish me off. On top of my criminal record, it would be a fatal blow.

My vision blackens and the reality of the situation comes back like a sledgehammer to the head as what little air I have left melts away.

He won't kill me. He'll choke me for as long as he can, then draw back at the last moment.

Yet I can't defend myself. I can't take up that key.

Treason would have me jailed, but assault could get me killed.

My vision blacks again —

Then he sets me down. Suddenly, and steps away. I shake my head, dizzy and stumbling.

It's Viktor.

Weakly, I straighten my coat as he walks down the corridor. I don't know if I'm gaining any bruises yet, but at least my collar will hide them.

Because I can't tell him, and he can't know. Because then Rosenberg will attack me on one side, and I can't let Viktor make a mess for my sake, can't risk my past being exposed for all to see.

I'm just a commoner. I don't have the right to get help. I lost it a long time ago, and got chains in its place.

'Count Rosenberg.'

'Greetings, Your Majesty.'

'Is Herr Wittgenstein all right?'

'I imagine so, but it seems he just had a dizzy spell. We were talking just now, too.'

I keep my eyes on the carpet, waiting for Viktor to pass by. Avoiding his gaze until he goes.

'Heine.'

It pulls me up like a gunshot.

He sees me.

And his eyes darken.

I can't process it, can't understand what I'm seeing, as Viktor strides over.

'Your Majesty?' Rosenberg asks, perplexed.

Viktor snatches Rosenberg by the wrist.

'What?'

And forcibly hauls him away—

' _Your Majesty_ —'

—and shoves him through, pausing on the threshold with a dangerous glint in his eye, stepping in, and closing the door behind himself with a slam that nearly rocks it off its hinges.

I'm so startled that the audible chaos — shouting and breaking glass — barely registers.

Viktor… saved me? Stood up for me?

Someone stood up for me?

Suddenly, the door opens again and Viktor steps out, dusting off his hands with a smile.

'V-Viktor?' I stammer.

He glances over. 'Oh, don't worry, he's still alive.'

My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. As the king known as the 'god of war,' he could, quite terrifyingly, have been speaking in a literal sense. Viktor winks, and glances back.

Rosenberg emerges, holding a hand to his head with a wince, and with what appears to be actual _fear_ etched into every fibre of his being.

'…We were just talking about staying in _line_. Weren't we, Ernst?' Viktor says, dumping the man's title, surname, and throwing in a similar-sounding word to 'alive' as naturally as breathing.

Rosenberg swallows. 'Yes, my lord.'

Viktor drops the act. 'Out.'

'Yes, my lord.'

And he gets out while he can, perhaps expecting a sword in the back at any moment.

Viktor walks over, and straightens my jacket collar. 'Heine. Your face tells more than you think it does, my friend.'

'I tried to deal with it on my own,' I whisper. 'It would have caused problems for you. _I've_ caused so many problems for you.'

'I don't care. Come to me. If you're acting for my sake, then I want to return the favour.'

He drops to one knee. 'Let me be your knight every now and then, Heine. You don't have to carry your sword all the time.'

I nod, too choked up to speak.

He grins. 'And it must get tiring for such a little thing to carry such a heavy—' I smack him over the head, '— _Ow!_ '

I take back my hand and sigh. 'You're giving me a rather tiresome impression of knights, Viktor. And one that isn't guided by a very chivalrous code of conduct, for that matter.'

Viktor points at the now-empty room. 'What, that? Come on, Heine, let me have my fun. It gets boring being stuck behind a desk all day!'

'Well, heaven forbid that the war king should lose his edge…'

Viktor grimaces. 'That man wasn't much of a sharpening stone, however.'

I smile. 'Thank you.'

He grins. 'Any time.'

 _The End_

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 **A/N:** Reviews welcome, and thanks for reading!


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